Chapter 9 - A Seat at the Head TableThe restaurant was an old-school Italian joint tucked away in a quiet corner of the South Loop, smelling of garlic, red wine, and roasted oregano. The owner took one look at Dante Moretti, paled slightly, and immediately led us to a private booth in the back corner away from the main dining room.
"You didn't bring the dog," Moretti noted dryly as he slid into the vinyl booth across from me.
"Titan is off duty," I said, picking up the heavy paper menu. "And if you think I'm going to spend my Thursday night talking about canine impulse control over pasta, you're out of your mind."
Moretti signaled the waiter with a single, effortless flick of his finger. "Then we'll talk about something else. Tell me how a woman with a degree in animal behavior ended up running the most chaotic shelter in Cook County."
For the next two hours, the syndicate boss and the shelter director talked about things that had nothing to do with guards, gates, or guns. He listened with the same intense, calculating focus he gave his business ledgers, absorbing every word I said about the stray dogs, the broken funding models, and the impossible math of a life spent rescuing animals.
"You care too much about things that can't fight back," Moretti said softly, swirling a glass of Chianti.
"And you care too much about things that only fight back," I countered, looking straight across the small wooden table into his slate-gray eyes.
May you like
Moretti went quiet for a moment. He didn't look away. Instead, he reached across the table, his warm fingers brushing gently against the back of my hand.
"Maybe," Moretti murmured. "Or maybe I was just waiting for someone who knew how to set the boundaries I never learned."
